


Marriage à-la-mode

by PaintMeViolent



Category: Norse Mythology, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aesir, Arranged Marriage, Asgard, BAMF!Loki, Baldur and Loki going on adventures, Baldur and Loki running away, Baldur is learning, Helheimr, Jotunheim, Jötnar, Midgard, Muspellsheimr, Niflheimr, Svartalfar, Svartálfaheimr, Vanaheimr, Warning: Loki, to be BAMF, vanir, world building, Álfar, Álfheimr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintMeViolent/pseuds/PaintMeViolent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That is why, my dear,” the man bent forward, a little closer to Baldur, “I am going to make you an offer you cannot refuse." A pause. “How would you like to be my companion on the tour of the Nine?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Royal Disaster

Baldur hated.

Baldur hated Asgard with its golden halls and thick heads, Baldur hated Jotunheim with their sky-high silvery towers and too intelligent and cunning Kings, Baldur hated Odin, that damned old idiot who dared to trade him like a pretty token for peace. But most of all he hated Thor, the golden fool, the symbol that represented the whole Asgard. The brother, who charged off to Jotunheim and came out clean. And he, Baldur, who stayed behind and did absolutely nothing to the nation of Giants, had to pay with his freedom for the crime Thor committed.

So, the second prince continued to seethe and throw petty tantrums in his rooms. He didn’t say a word to his father-King, whose plan Baldur dubbed “How to get out of a sticky situation, not to disrupt peace with Jotunheim and have his heir come out of the whole ordeal clean all in one stride” came to fruition without a hitch. He stayed out of the boastful golden heir’s way, who couldn’t have his picture perfect future rulership marred by a Jotun as the one sitting by him and being equal to him and who wouldn’t shut up how Odin didn’t let him smash all the Jotuns into pancakes. And no one said anything about how the Jotun King could have had Thor frozen into a perfect decoration for his throne room or study. No, all those simpletons kept on lamenting the fact that they didn’t get to unsheathe their swords.

Baldur screamed in frustration and flopped on the soft bed, the only piece of furniture that wasn’t damaged in the moments of murderous rage.

The once-called-but-no-longer serene prince hoped in the darkest corners of his soul that some higher than Gods force will kill the Giant he was to marry or at least hit Odin on the head with something heavy, so that the old man would reconsider and call off the whole farce of a wedding.

But nothing like that could or would happen, that Baldur knew.

His moment of self-pity was interrupted by quiet knocking. Baldur froze and feverishly started thinking of an excuse for his thoughts, momentarily forgetting that no one could read his thoughts (well, as far as he knew neither Odin nor Heimdallr were all-knowing, thanks the Norns). 

Baldur breathed in deeply to calm himself down and called out to whoever was on the other side of door, “Enter,” and waited. Only no one came in, and the rapid knocking didn’t stop.

‘ _Must be a pigeon with papers_ ,’ mused the prince as he went to the window and saw a corner of a scroll. Sending letters with carrier pigeons wasn’t as common as sending a page, but love letters… But then again, who could be sending him love letters after it was announced that he was to marry a frost giant? It was unfair, so, so unfair, because he didn’t even get to have a secret lover and to get or send love letters and to –

“Norns’ saggy left t-”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A regal large red and gold bird was holding a scroll in its beak, tapping impatiently on the window and looking quite irritable (if a bird could have emotions, but then again, was it a normal bird?).

He opened the window for it and the bird glided into the chambers and dropped the scroll on the table.

Baldur took it, all the while warily glancing at the strange bird which was seated comfortably at his bed headboard and examined the parchment: it was thin and very sift to the touch, a very strange seal caught his eye: it had a serpent circling a crown seated on the wolf’s jaws. He broke the seal and unwrapped it.

‘ _Your Royal Highness,  
I must address the issue of our... marriage. I do not know you. You do not know me. You and I do not have to pretend to like each other only because your royal brother was, if you excuse me, an idiot to charge into our Realm._

_However, I would like to meet you before you and I are forced to smile and be oh so happy for the idea that graced King Odin and King Laufey. Meet me in Alfheimr, by the clock tower at Lantern Square of Vidblain._

_If you did not work it out, I am the Crown Prince of Jotunheim._

_P.S. If I wanted to sabotage our wedding by murdering you, I would have used poisonous scent on this paper and have it burned later._ ’

Oh. Wait a second, _what_?


	2. The Offer

Baldur was suspicious.

He heard enough stories to know that such letters were sent before the hero was going to get murdered. Did the Jotun prince - (and was it even the prince who sent the letter? As far as Baldur was concerned, there were lots of other candidates out for the royal family’s blood.) - think him Thor to charge off into the wild without a second thought about his own well-being and the consequences of his actions?

But then, the stories had always said that the letters were not signed at all or with a name of the hero’s loved one. And what was he to make of the letter signed by that damned Jotun? Did the prince have a malicious intent behind him inviting Baldur for a chat to Alfheimr? And if he did not, why would the prince want to speak with him?

Baldur shook his head, trying to banish the treacherous thoughts. The one trait that bound the whole nation of Jotunheim was their cunningness: no matter the height, skin color or the master element of their power, they all could give even the Svartalfar, the famed blacksmiths of metals and words both, a run for their riches.

The prince sat down on the chair and thought about _pro et contra_ agreeing to follow through with the madness proposed in the letter.

He was not a fool, and he knew that the Ice prince didn’t hold any hidden love for him, so his life was on the line. And he did not want to die! He was too young to get on his final journey to Valhalla and listen to those boisterous talks of practically ancient days and the battles that had taken place back then. What is more, going to Alfheimr was to disobey his father, as the old man forbade his sons to leave Asgard in fear that the royal ruffians would cause even more trouble.

On the other hand, he could get back at Odin for the whole marriage business and he could get a glimpse of the being he was supposed to marry. And maybe he could even talk the prince into postponing the ludicrous attempt at saving the too fragile peace between their two great Realms (and they were, no pun intended).

The choice was too obvious.

Suddenly his hands burned, and Baldur dropped the parchment, blowing on his hands and waving them in the air, trying to get the pain to disappear.

When it was finally over, thanks Odin, he turned to glare at the letter and saw something that was not supposed to be there: burning gold signet ring was lying on the floor, sending off violent tendrils of cold dark red light. Cracks started forming in the marble floor, and the piece of the floor was crumbling and breaking and the ring started slowly sinking through the gold, as if it was trying to go underground.

The magnificent bird made a sharp, piercing call and flew down, picking up the ring into the bill and practically throwing it down on him.

And then he was tugged forward, as if every tiny cell in his body was pulled in one direction, but separately. For a fleeting second Baldur couldn’t move, breathe or think, all he could do was feel like a pack of potatoes that was being pulled and pulled and pulled mercilessly. And the next thing he knew was a handful of dirt in his mouth and soft singing of the damned bird that played such a trick on him!

He spat out the sand and wrapped his arms around himself. He was in one piece, bless the All-mother! 

The prince looked around and with startling clarity understood that he was in Alfheimr. The enormous oak tree he was standing under gave shade to a stunningly delicate-looking bridge that led to the soaring white towers and artfully-built stone houses with golden and silver roofs. 

Baldur squeezed the ring in his fist tighter and looked at the bird, which was watching him as if in thought:

“Lead the way to your master, you little monster.”

***

By the time the bird had finally slowed down, Baldur was ready to collapse and die of utter exhaustion. And he was a warrior of Asgard, for Bor’s sake!

But Alfheimr was different from the environment he was used to: it smelt and felt and tasted unlike his home. The air was lighter, making his head hurt and his vision darken around the edges. And it came as no surprise when he found himself standing among the hustle and bustle of a market square, and no bird in sight.

The prince was baffled. Where did the little beast go? The young man craned his neck and stood on tiptoe to search for the spot of golden red (and the icy hue of blue) among the crowd. 

There were green and brown cloaks, golden and pink gowns, silver and cooper armor, but no fiery red. Baldur sighed in exasperation (how was he going to explain the situation to his father without making it seem like he ran away from wedding?) and turned around to go –

Wait. There. A wing coloured the bright shade of sunset.

As hope sprang in Baldur, he started pushing eagerly through the crowd to get to the spot, where he saw the bird. When he fell out of the mass of people, he saw the fiery bird sitting on the shoulder beside…

Err… hair. A head of bright red hair was nested on the long pale-skinned neck. Oh, no. He would be dead by the end of this day, because no way this is the Prince of Jotunheim. He saw King Laufey and some other Ice Giants, and he didn’t spot even one tiny, itty bitty hair on their heads. And what was he seeing now? A mane, a mane of untamed ginger curls.

Baldur would have kept on freaking out, if the man didn’t turn around and face him. The man was not handsome: with a nose that had a little hump as if it was once broken and thin scars around his almost non-existent lips. The man would have passed for a simple Midgardian, if not for his eyes that glowed ruby red, beckoning Baldur to come closer and touch them (though the owner would not be pleased) to find out if they were real or made from glass and rubies.

And when he approached the seated man, he didn’t offer anything better to say but, “Err…”

“You were supposed to be far more intelligent than your fellow warriors. It seems that all hope is truly lost for the Aesir.”

“You were supposed to be the Jotun Prince.”

“I am, believe it or not. A face does not change anything. But do not throw around the titles, we are guests here.”

“Neutral territory,” murmured Baldur, sitting down opposite the man.

“You look pale,” remarked the redhead. “Drink it.”

He took the flask from the man and sniffed the offered drink, wrinkling his nose in dislike for the pungent scent.

“Stop being a princess,” he heard the mocking voice. “Take a gulp and you will feel better.”

Baldur did feel better, but only after he swallowed the awfully bitter drink. He thrust the flask back to the laughing ginger and glared at him: “What am I even doing here?”

“Did you read the letter?”

“Yes, yes, I did. I wouldn’t be here, if I threw it out the window, now would I?”

“You should be more polite, oh the Shining One,” the man’s lips tugged up into a smile and the tiny scars stretched, making his mouth look as if it went ten rounds with a boar that was robbed off of his food one cold winter evening. Baldur forced himself to look at the man’s eyes instead, alluring and sharp, knowing.

“We should start anew,” said the man suddenly. “Let’s do it right this time, shall we? I’m Loki, prince of Jotunheim.”

“Aren’t you a little bit old to be a prince?”

“Rude again, Baldur. And to answer your question, I haven’t reached your age yet and won’t for many years.”

“But…”

“It’s just a face, one of many. I am gifted with the ability to change shapes on will. And now, please, be so kind and introduce yourself.”

He was being mocked. Again.

“You know my name, Loki.” Loki, Loki, Loki… he toyed with the name in his head, as if tasting it and came to the conclusion that it was just as sharp as the eyes of this stranger.

“It’s a courtesy. Haven’t anyone taught you good manners?”

“I am Baldur, prince of Asgard. Happy?”

“Very. It’s nice to talk to my future spouse face to face.”

“Cannot say the same,” grumbled Baldur, mourning his married life already. It would be a royal disaster. 

“Oh, be grateful that you’ve got me and not my cousin Angrboða, I saw that lovely beauty do some disturbing things to those who tried to lay a finger on her and when she was done with those men, they were left mewling broken messes. Or you could have landed yourself Thrym, my father’s nephew. He’s famous for leaving his lovers _deadly satisfied_ ,” the emphasized word was ‘deadly’. Baldur gulped and thought that there must be much more of that than of anything close to satisfying. 

“At least I have to marry _you_. I was worried sick I would get your brother. I almost, _almost_ whooped in glee when Odin offered your head as the sacrificial lamb.”

“I am not a lamb, _prince_. And you misspoke - my hand.”

“What I would do with your hand? Hold it?” scoffed the redhead. “But I do enjoy intelligence, Baldur. And you must be quite smart to have earned yourself a reputation unlike the rest of Asgard.”

“Look, Loki, if we are to marry, you should stop insulting my people.”

“I would be married to you, not your people, you muppet. And about that little thorn in our side… I do not want to marry you.”

“We are finally getting to business, aren’t we?”

“But there is nothing either you or I can do about it. As much as my father-King loves me, he is first and foremost the King of Jotunheim. And to ensure that no incidents like the Midsummer one would happen again, the scheme was devised by our fathers.”

“But we do not know each other. And I sincerely doubt that we would feel anything but contempt for each other if we do get married,” despaired Baldur (he was not getting married to this… joke!).

“That is why, my dear,” the man bent forward, a little closer to Baldur, “I am going to make you an offer you cannot refuse.”

“And what is that?” 

“How would you like to be my companion on the tour of the Nine?”

 _You are jesting, aren’t you? If we run away, they will send their best Hounds after us. We have to marry to ensure the peace between our Realms. I won’t run away from responsibility like an insolent child,’_ those were the thoughts running in Baldur’s head as he opened his mouth to refuse the offer:

“Sure. Where to first?”

**Author's Note:**

> Done for [this promt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/11219.html?thread=24792019#t24792019).


End file.
